Espionage
by donutsandcoffee
Summary: AU. No one knows him except his code name "America", but Ivan finds him irritating that he keeps calling him "Russia" during their missions. He's an American spy, damn it. Russia x America.


**Espionage**

**Author: **donutsandcoffee

**Beta: **fiftysix-luver

**Words Count:**1,258

**Pariring(s): **Russia x America (or Ivan x Alfred), slight USUK, and later on, some hidden pairings.

**Summary: **No one knows him except his code name "America", but Ivan finds him irritating that he keeps calling him "Russia" during their missions. He's an American spy, damn it.

**Disclaimer: **Axis Powers Hetalia is Hidekaz Himaruya's.

**-X-**

**prologue**

**there are two types of them here.**

**-X-**

No one knew his name.

But then again, no one knew anyone's name here. Everyone went by code names in this Agency, went by "Alpha" and "Hawk-eye" and "K-501", not "James" or "Sam" or "Jim"; and he realized with an unpleasant jolt some time ago that the code naming made all of them felt that they had given a crucial part of themselves to the Agency, their existence, their _identity_.

After the revelation, he realized the unsettling truth that he did not mind that at all.

He personally thought that no one would mind this at all, he mulled later, at least here in the Agency. Some of them were still struggling to remember their past for more than a collection of hazy pictures while the rest were still having nightmare about theirs, past filled with blood and betrayal and things people thought only happen in those over-dramatic Hollywood movies. Losing identity was the least of their concern if not a blessing; what's the use of an identity, some sort of a _free will_ in a way, if you don't know what to do with your life?

_The Agency takes care of you, _the words echoed in his mind again, the very exact words the man who brought him in to the Agency told him, _as long as you take care of the Agency._ Of course he understood what 'taking care of the Agency' meant; it was no child's play—missions of assassinations and espionage and myriads of unspeakable things.

They must carry out every single mission, including those that violated human rights or their own beliefs, if one ever had one. He did not care much, truthfully; he no longer entertained the idea of free will when his gun was raised and pointed at the target's head, the man's desperate narration about his wife and three sons who just entered primary school went over his head, and the knowledge of who was truly at fault—a colleague of this unfortunate target—laid forgotten at the back of his mind.

He pulled the trigger without a trace of hesitation.

Free will, to him, was never more than an idea, a concept with soft blurry edges that slipped through his fingers.

The only thing that was ever near to free will to him was, ironically, the code name. In the Agency, one was entitled to choose their own code name, as ridiculous as it may sound. He once had doubts about his own choice, but after meeting a cheerful person of Spanish decent with the code name "Tomato" and an outgoing teen with a strong Italian accent that went by the name "Pasta", any doubts were erased. At least his name didn't sound like a windows messenger username.

He instead went by the name "Vodka". His favorite drinks from his birthplace Russia, though he didn't remember much about his past. He lost his memory some time ago, and in the middle of a losing struggle in the United States of America to find information other than his birth name, _Ivan_, the Agency took him in.

And since then, nothing interested him more than missions; missions for the Agency, missions for the good of his country the United States of America. Nothing, except _him_.

America.

**-X-**

America was a man full of smiles and laughter from the outside, but Ivan saw him as a neat little package of a beautiful Roman statue, full of facades and pretenses. He wore glasses, a very rare thing for an agent, but they never managed to filter the brightness of his clear blue eyes. He was the most patriotic man Ivan had ever met (as far as he remembered, anyways) and _of course_ he had to go by the name "America".

America was famous, to say the least. He was fairly new to the Agency, and yet he was near the top of the positions, rising up the ranks faster than one could count to ten. No one knew his name, his _real_ name, but everyone knew "America" and looked at him with awe and admiration.

Ivan did _not_ admire him even the slightest bit.

He had to admit he found America interesting, but he didn't _admire _him, oh gods, _no_. To him, America was obnoxious and loud, and it was a wonder how he could carry out all those bloody missions without crying buckets after that. Yet, America didn't. He still executed his missions perfectly, back straight as he took confident steps past the hall as he came back from said missions.

"_How was your mission, America?"_

_The teen—not even a man, but a teen—took another bite of his favorite hamburger before smiled, almost mockingly, almost condescendingly._

"_Piece of cake!"_

But what captured Ivan's attention was one little fact he was quite sure only _he_ knew. There was a time when he was asked to pick America up, and he found him still sleeping in a hotel room.

Of course, if _screaming his heart out and clutching the pillow tightly_ counted as a part of sleeping too.

America was clutching his pillow so tightly that Ivan could see his veins, a desperate, sad cry escaped his throat, forming some indescribable words that may have never existed. It could have been a name, but Ivan tuned out all the screams before his heart and feelings started to help him think.

When America woke up, Ivan never showed that he had seen what happened.

There were two types of people in the Agency. One could not remember their past, their family, and the reason for their existence. One still had nightmares about theirs, the memory etched painfully in their mind.

Ivan—_Vodka—_was the former.

America was the latter.

** -X-**

"You need to have a life now," a messenger said over the phone, a code that practically meant 'you have your next mission.' They always talked through secured lines, but it never hurt to be secretive. It just made things a little bit safer and a little more complicated, Ivan decided.

"Maybe you're right," he said, which of course meant 'yes', "any ideas…?"

"Clover one, two, three," the person said, and the line went dead.

Ivan understood perfectly what the messenger meant. It was the routine to ensure security; every details of a mission was sent to a new, high-security e-mail, deleted once the mission was done and always used the same password assigned to him when he first entered the agency. The seemingly unintelligible words were, of course, the email address.

Out of habit, yet still with professionalism, he opened his laptop and quickly opened the email. The only mail there used no capital letters in its title, as if it was none of an importance even though someone's life may depend on it. On there, was written:

**15-0372-elimination**

_Elimination_, Ivan smiled grimly at his own thoughts, _a euphemism for assassination._

He scanned through the report, noting when the mission would be carried out—Wednesday, the 11th, next week—and his eyes stopped at a very riveting line.

**Partner(s)  
1) 0407—America**

He never realized his grim smile had turned into a different smile, a combination of multitude of feelings suddenly bubbling inside him.

**-X-**

His laptop made a soft 'ping' as a window with two simple words appeared on his desktop.

**Reply Sent**

The ends of his lips curved upwards, forming a ghost of a smile. He had agreed on the mission almost immediately, though he made it quite sure he didn't sound so eager.

He couldn't wait until next week.

**-X-**

**A/n: **very short, as it's just a prologue, an opening so that you get the idea of what's the story about. (Well, in short: Russia x America as spies XD) First chapter may pop out soon, after I update my Ouran-Hetalia crossover fic, so stay tuned :)

Reviews are awesome and encourage me to update.

**-X-**

_First chapter teaser…_

"_Hello, America."_

"_Dude, what's wrong with your accent? Is that Russian? Oh damn it, it _is_ Russian. I am so calling you Russia from now on."_

"_America, I may be of a Russian decent, but I can assure you I'm American. And my name is Vodka."_

"_No shit, commie bastard. Anyways, let's not waste our time, Russia."_


End file.
